On A Wing And A Prayer: Into the Fire
by Vi Co
Summary: Fourth in the series. June 22, 1941
1. Muncie, Indiana

_June 22, 1941 – Muncie, Indiana_

"Andrew," his mother called impatiently up the stairs, "if you don't hurry we're going to be late."

"I'll be right down," he yelled back, exaggerating a little. He was standing in front of the mirror, fresh out of the shower, the towel still wrapped around his waist. Having slept in again, he now had to frantically rush to try and be ready on time. But he still took the time to lean in closer to the mirror, looking carefully at his eyebrows. Happily, they were finally starting to grow in again.

"Andrew James Carter!"

"I'm coming!"

Hurriedly, he dropped the towel and started throwing on the neatly ironed clothes that his mother had laid out for him. The fabric stuck to the wet patches of skin, forcing Carter to wiggle, trying to distance the cloth from his skin. His fingers flew up the buttons of his shirt, retracing their path when he missed a button, causing the shirt to gape and pucker.

Stepping into his shoes, he tried to pull them on with one hand while using the other to pull a comb through his wet hair with the other. It didn't work quite as well as he had hoped and he had to go back, straightening his part. There was time for another quick look in the mirror as he shrugged on his jacket, and then he took of down the stairs, pausing only for long enough to grab his tie off of his doorknob as he passed.

Both his mother and his father were standing by the door, ready and waiting. Brian was making his own dash down the hall toward the door, a half-eaten slice of toast clutched firmly in his hand. His tie and jacket were nowhere to be seen.

"Brian," their mother said, "were you planning to be fully dressed at church today?"

Brian, cramming the rest of his toast into his mouth, and looked down, trying to figure out which piece of clothing he was missing. Then, mumbling something incoherent around the buttered bread, he took off up the stairs, in search of the absent jacket and tie.

John Carter nodded a silent good morning to his middle son, his thoughts wandering a million miles away. An English teacher at the reserve school, the school he had attended as a child, he was something of a daydreamer, always with his head in the clouds. But he was also one of the most popular teachers at the school. Students loved his laidback attitude and his dedication to the Native culture and legends. The legends were his passion and his hobby was recording them, so that they were not lost to history.

Carter nodded back solemnly, draping his tie around his neck and preparing to start knotting it around his neck. In many ways, he was more like his father than either of his brothers. They shared the same dreamy nature, but it was combined with a quiet sort of passion, when they remembered what it was they were passionate about.

Brian strolled down the stairs, his jacket thrown casually over his shoulder. "Hey, Andrew, didn't you tell Mary Jane that you'd walk her to church this morning?" he asked nonchalantly.

Carter's eyes widened instantly. He had completely forgotten! Mary Jane was going to be completely irate. He had promised her that he would be there this week, come rain or shine; he had already forgotten for the past two weeks.

Trying to hurry, Carter yanked on his tie to tighten the knot. His hand slipped, tightening the tie into a noose and hitting himself on the chin. "Here," his mother said, stepping over to fix the snarled mess he had made of his tie. And hopefully reopen his airway. "Let me."

With a few smooth movements of her hands, she had smoothed the tie, placing the knot within the confines of his collar. "Thanks, Mom," he said, bending down to place a kiss on her cheek.

"It's what you keep me around for, isn't it?" she asked laughingly, returning the kiss.

The complete opposite of her husband, Mary Carter was extremely down to earth and sensible. Her feet were planted firmly on the ground; she was the anchor of the family, making sure that everyone was properly fed and clothed. Without her, the family and the house would have been a complete shambles.

"Now, hurry along or Mary Jane'll be cross," she continued, pushing him toward the door.

He instantly took off running, but he had only gotten two steps before he heard his mother's voice calling out after him. "Andrew," she called, "aren't you forgetting something?" He turned to see her shaking her head at him. It was a common gesture around the Carter household.

Carter glanced down at himself quickly, performing the same check that Brian had. Everything appeared to be in place. Shirt, tie, jacket, pants, shoes: everything was where it should be. What could he possibly be forgetting?

Seeing the look of confusion on his son's face and recognizing it, having worn it himself on more than one occasion, John started laughing. "Lift your pants, son," he told Carter, a wide grin creasing his face.

Carter obeyed. As he did, he felt the breeze playing around his bare ankles. Instantly, his face turned red. Grinning embarrassedly, he took off up the stairs again. There, neatly laid out on his bed, right where he had left them, were his socks.


	2. London, England

_June 22, 1941 - London, England_  
  
"How can I go on with this?" Hogan demanded, his dark eyes snapping with the anger that his voice barely hinted at. "Nothing that I could do would even come close to doing enough to help these people, even if we were allowed to do more than watch. How can you expect us to continue in this position?"  
  
"You are a soldier, Hogan," General Brecker answered patiently. He had been expecting a confrontation like this from Hogan since they had first arrived in England. "We don't expect you to do anything except what you're ordered to do."  
  
"But you haven't given me any orders except to watch and learn!" Hogan exploded. Well, in normal terms it wouldn't have been anything more than slight raising of his voice. But for a military officer, talking to his superior, it was tantamount to a temper tantrum.  
  
Brecker continued to sit stoically behind his desk, his hands resting neatly on the files before him. It was better for Hogan to get this off his chest, and then get on with their work.  
  
Hogan stared at the general, his righteous anger building behind his calm façade. "I watch the planes go up," he continued, "and not come back. I watch the civilians sleeping every night in the Underground while their homes are pounded down to rubble I watch the ships limp back to the harbours, their crews exhausted and known that they've still got no choice but to go out again. I watch the soldiers marching over the countryside, trying to convince the Germans that we could fight off an invasion."  
  
"We all watch these things, but the important question is: what do we learn?"  
  
"I learn that we're hiding behind the fat that so far nothing has happened to us. I learn what the American people don't know, that this isn't just some trivial little thing that will be over by Christmas. I learn that this is going to be a fight to the death."  
  
"But why don't the America people know this?" Brecker asked, knowing that it was the only way that Hogan would continue to answer. His sense of duty wouldn't let him rail at a senior officer unless it was invited.  
  
"They don't know because they can't see it," Hogan sighed. "They can't understand because they're not under siege. Because they live a sheltered existence behind their Neutrality Act and their normal everyday lives. Because they haven't been told the things that we've watched."  
  
"And that is exactly why we have to watch those things, Hogan," the general said, leaning forward in his chair. "We have to bear witness for the American people. You don't think that I would much rather be marching alongside those soldiers or flying in formation with those pilots? But it's not our time to fight. Not yet."  
  
"General, we're soldiers," Hogan replied. "We're trained to fight, not to stand idly on the sidelines and watch while others are led like lambs away to the slaughter." He was tensed, ready to fly into action the second that he had permission to.  
  
"Our time will come, Hogan," Brecker reassured Hogan. "And when it does, the United States is going to need people, who have already seen to open their eyes. And they're going to need people, like you, to lead the charge against the enemy."  
  
Hogan nodded, once, crisply. He wasn't satisfied with the answer, but he would accept it. He didn't have much other choice. It was his duty to accept the answers without argument.  
  
Brecker continued, "I guarantee you, Hogan, that once the time has come for us to fight, there will be nothing to hold you back."  
  
"And you, sir?" Hogan asked.  
  
Brecker shook his head sadly. "Someone has to make sure that the others see what we know to be so. I've got to take those things to the American people. But you, you take those things and make them your fight."  
  
"What do you mean, general?" Hogan inquired, inclining his head quizzically.  
  
"Fight not because it's what you've been ordered to do, but because of those airmen who didn't come back; or because of those civilians who stay resolved when resolve is the only thing that they've got left; or because of those sailors who make trip after horrible trip just to keep this island alive; or because of the futile efforts of those soldiers. Take those and make them your reasons for fighting."  
  
"But when is the time finally going to come for us to fight? When it's finally politically convenient for the President to act? Or when it's too late to save this island?"  
  
"I don't know, Hogan," Brecker sighed. "But something will come to push the American people over the edge. And then the world will sit up and take notice. And that's when we'll fight, when there's nothing less that can stop us." Brecker swivelled a little in his chair, his voice fading away to an inaudible murmur.  
  
"Sorry, what was that, sir?"  
  
"I said, 'And heaven help anyone who stands in our way'." 


	3. Stalag 13, Germany

_June 22, 1941 – Stalag 13_

LeBeau awoke with a start as a heavy hand pressed securely down over his mouth, stopping him from crying out. He instantly readied himself for a fight, his hands balling up into fists and his muscles tightening.

"Barracks Seven," came the whisper a moment later. LeBeau instantly relaxed. "Patterns at the window," he added quietly. LeBeau nodded his understanding. It was impossible to whisper an answer with the man's hand still held over his mouth. The silent figure nodded back, then removed his hand, slipping quietly down the lines of sleeping men off to wake another prisoner.

Sitting up, LeBeau quickly fumbled into his uniform, wordlessly praising his bottom bunk. He had spent the first few months of his stay cursing it, but it was invaluable when he had to slip out for midnight rendezvous like this. It meant that he could slip out of bed without waking the person sleeping beneath him.

Swinging his feet slowly over the edge of the bunk, LeBeau reached for his boots. He didn't want to be trekking around the camp in only his stocking feet, but he didn't dare put them on until he was out in the compound. The boots would only make too much noise on the wooden floors of the barracks.

Carrying the boots in his hands, LeBeau went to join another shadowy figure at the window. Once he got close enough, LeBeau could tell that it was LeClerc. The lanky Frenchman's signature curly hair was easy to pick out, even in the dark.

"Steiner's in tower one, Meiraum's four, Gietz's three, and Brekke's on patrol," LeClerc whispered. He was watching in the darkness for his signal that it was time to move. He didn't even bother to turn enough to see who had come to join him; if he missed the signal then everything would be thrown off.

LeBeau didn't take the time to think about anything other than solidifying everything in his head. Each of the guards had their own distinctive patterns, both on patrol and manning the searchlights. The old hands had noticed that early on in their escape planning and countless sleepless nights had been spent familiarizing themselves with the patterns of each guard. Those patterns were now as familiar to the old hands as their own names, maybe more familiar since they kept switching names to confuse the guards.

Not only could the old hands dodge the searchlights and evade the patrolling guards, but they could also dig and camouflage a tunnel, and help a dozen men escape with full kits while hiding another ten as ghosts. Their favourite sport was confusing the German guards. They were exactly the sort of men that you would want if you were forming an escape committee. And those were the reasons that Captain Scott had asked the old hands to be the formative members of the X Committee.

Scott was a relatively recent arrival, having been transferred in from another camp. The kommandant had hoped that having another officer in the camp, providing some sort of leadership, would help reduce the numbers of escapes. But Scott was the wrong officer to achieve that end. He was the most committed to escape of any of the prisoners, even though he was the Senior British Officer. However, his sense of duty would not allow him to escape until all of the men beneath his command were gone. It made him a perfect escape officer.

"What do you think X has planned now?" LeBeau questioned quietly. This was the second escape committee meeting in less than a month.

"Your guess is as good as mine," LeClerc whispered back. "There's my signal. See you there." And the next instant, he was jumping out the window and vanishing away into the night, lean body pressed close to the barrack's wall.

As LeBeau waited in the darkness, watching for his own signal, one of the other men sleeping in the barracks turned over, the boards of his bunk creaking loudly. LeBeau froze in place, a dark silhouette against the open square of cloudy sky. Someone else coughed in response, triggering another person to stir. As usual, the ripple traveled around the barracks, but the men were used to it and no one woke. However, the guards sometimes decided to investigate the strange noises.

"Please let the guards not notice," LeBeau muttered softly, seriously contemplating a quick dash back to the safety of his bunk. But as the tense seconds ticked past and there was no harsh shouts from the guards, LeBeau reflected that it was probably too late to get back to his bunk.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the white flash that signified the all clear. He had almost missed the sign in his worries about what was going on inside the barracks.

When he saw the flash of white, it was too late for thought. He had to act with the split-second timing that they had all practiced so carefully. Out the window and roll to the right behind the shelter of the water barrel, and count to seven and dart to the doorway of Barracks Three. The white rag was still lying where LeClerc had abandoned it, but LeBeau knew he was the last one out of Barracks Two; his bunk was the farthest from the window. LeBeau reached down to pick up the rag, shoving it into his pocket. They couldn't leave it there; the guards would see it and get suspicious.

Peering cautiously around the corner, looking for the guard, LeBeau reached up to rap softly on the shuttered window of Barracks Three. Keegan and the other members of the escape committee in that barracks would be waiting. The searchlights moved into the interior of the camp, scanning the grounds of anything out of the ordinary. They passed near the barracks, bathing the doorways in light, but LeBeau was already long gone, darting around the corner off into the shadow of the building. And then it was seventeen steps across the lane to the open window of Barracks Five.

As a safeguard incase a ferret happened to overhear, the messages passed on by the messenger were always in code. Tonight, because it was just past midnight on June twenty-second, a Sunday, a two had to be subtracted from the number they had been told. That way, if the guards searched Barracks Seven, they would find nothing wrong. Extra prisoners were even shuffled into the barracks to fill the empty bunks.

Barracks Five had most of the windows standing open and members of the X Committee were being hauled up into the barracks at regular intervals. The barracks was completely dark, because of the open windows, but the table was ringed completely with silent, shadowy figures. The meeting would be held in the main tunnel, to avoid having the other prisoners in the barracks overhear. But the tunnel couldn't be opened until everyone was there and the windows had been closed.

LeBeau slipped into an empty seat beside the dark figure he recognized as LeClerc, ready to wait for an untold amount of time until everyone had managed to get there. But thankfully, he was one of the last to arrive and only had to wait as the final stragglers had come in and the windows were closed again. Then, and only then, was a single candle lit and the tunnel entrance cautiously opened.

The waiting men filed silently into the darkness of the tunnel and assembled quickly on the benches of the man subterranean room. Then, the tunnel entrance was shut and Scott made his way forward through the rows of waiting men to address his X Committee. The only light in the room came from a lantern that had been suspended from the centre roof support. The only sounds were a few hushed voices and the men's expectant breathing.

"Gentlemen," Scott began, "this meeting of the X Committee is officially convened. The issue at hand, Operation Swift Rider." He paused, hoping to build the tension, even though the attention of each and every man was already riveted to him.

"For the next six months," he explained, "we're going to dig. There'll be three new tunnels, joined with a complete connecting system. We're going to use the feeler tunnels that the first group built and the unfinished sections that you've all started. Sergeant Brown has taken a survey and plotted the exact location of each of the tunnels that we've already constructed, the incomplete tunnels, and the ones we still have yet to shore up. But, of course, those are only the ones that haven't been compromised by the goons."

Scott paused again, this time muttering flared up almost instantly. They had just finished digging and shoring up some nine hundred feet of tunnels. And here they had to start all over again! Their system was perfectly fine as it was; after all, it hadn't been found out by the Germans in the three months that it had been in operation. Did they or did they not have by the minute train and bus schedules and an intricate system of safe houses set up? Wasn't theirs the highest percentage of home runs of all the POW camps anywhere?

Instead of joining in with the complaining, LeBeau kept his attention glued to the fiery English captain. All of his other escape schemes had seemed crazy, some even suicidal, but all of them had worked well. If nothing else, the experiences had taught LeBeau that nothing was impossible, if you could get the right people to do it. And assembled in that tunnel beneath Stalag 13 were all of the right people.

They had a four-man engineering and expert construction team, a duo of forgers that could copy any paper on sight, an outstanding six scroungers, a five-man odd-job team, a professional tailor, an electrician, and a German language coach. If the escape committee decided that a man was ready to escape, that man had better than an eighty percent chance of being home in two weeks.

"I know it's a lot of work," Scott called above the rising din. "But I propose that three-quarters of this camp escapes all at once." The room fell instantly silent for a full minute as the full scope of the scheme Scott was proposing began to sink in. Then the comments began again, this time called out to Scott.

"It's bloody impossible."

"You'll never get it done."

"There's no way."

LeBeau jumped to his feet in defense of the captain. "Irving, isn't that what you said when we stole all of the uniforms coming back from the laundry? And you, Bryant, you were the one who nominated Captain Scott as X in the first place. Where's your show of support now?"

Again, the muttering resumed, but this time there were no outspoken words of dissent. Each one of them could easily remember a time when they swore something would never work. But it had always seemed to.

"I say we do it," LeBeau declared. "If we're all going to get home, why not all go at once? Instead of meeting at Nelson's statue in London, we all go together. We said we wouldn't leave this camp until we had given it our best shot. And I think this is it." His face aflame with passion, LeBeau took his seat again, nodding his agreement at Scott.

"Now, who thinks that we can't do it?" Scott asked. There was no answer.


	4. Hammelburg, Germany

_June 22, 1941 – Hammelburg, Germany_  
  
"What were you doing hiding near that farm?" Pause.

"Who gave you the civilian clothes?" Another pause.

The interrogator suddenly stopped his questioning, angrily telling Newkirk, "You gain nothing by remaining silent. We already know as much, if not more, than you do!" He paused again, briefly, waiting for an answer.

There was nothing.

"Fine, then if you won't tell us, we'll just have to tell you. How would you like that?" His only answer was the continued silence.

"Who should we start with? Perhaps Phillips, your pilot?"

There wasn't so much as a flicker of recognition on Newkirk's emotionless face. His life on the street had at least been good for that much.

"I don't know who you're talking about," he said, finally breaking his self- enforced silence. "I've told you a thousand times that I was the only survivor of the crash. I stole the clothes from some poor farmer's washing line and I was trying to walk through to Spain."

Reading off the notes in his folder, the German started flatly reciting the facts. "Pilot Officer Ronald Phillips was captured on the third of June while stealing eggs from a farmhouse that was being used to billet soldiers. But, of course, you know that already. You were hiding at the edge of the yard in a clump of brush with the tail-gunner from your plane. The two of you bolted when you saw what was going on."

He nonchalantly flipped the page, surveying Newkirk casually for any sort of response. Newkirk didn't give him one. He sat, bound to the chair, staring straight ahead.

"You did well in avoiding the search parties up until then. But after your pilot was captured, you weren't quite so lucky. It was down to just the two of you then," the interrogator continued. "You moved at night and hid during the day. It was a good plan, except you couldn't move far if the moon was out. And, most importantly, you needed to eat. That proved to be your downfall again."

"You were the one gathering food this time when a patrol stumbled across Lloyd James's hiding spot. You would have been caught then too, but you had the good sense to stay put this time. Had you followed the same course of action you did when Phillips was caught, you would have been caught along with your friend."

He paused again in another attempt to gauge Newkirk's reaction. Still nothing.

"What day was that again? Ah, yes, June the fourteenth, not even two weeks after we captured your pilot."

Newkirk glared across the room at the interrogator, one of his first emotional responses of the day's questioning. "Let's shoot you down over England and we'll see how bloody long you last," he retorted.

"Don't get me wrong, corporal," the interrogator said condescendingly, "I think that you did a surprisingly good job on your own. It was another five days before we finally found you. That was almost, what? Two months after we shot down your 'Lucky Lady' before your luck finally ran out."

Stepping forward, threateningly, he added, "As has my patience with you."

Snapping the folder shut, he tossed it carelessly to the floor, the papers scattering. "Now, answer my questions. Who helped you?"

Silence.

His voice raised angrily, the grating false pleasantness of before gone. "You were not captured in uniform. We have no reason not to execute you as a spy! That is, unless you choose to give me a reason. Now answer me!"

With his eyes pointed resolutely at the scarred cement wall in front of him, Newkirk didn't even spare a glance over at the interrogator. He wasn't a spy; he had proof. Under the Geneva Convention, they couldn't touch him, and he knew it. He was secure in that knowledge.

"Do you have anything at all to say for yourself?" No answer.

"Guards, turn him around," the interrogator ordered harshly, motioning the guards forward. The two bulky goons stepped forward out of the shadows and lifted Newkirk, firmly tied to his chair, rotating him in a half-circle.

There was nothing at all to look at except yet another pockmarked cement wall. It was identical to the one he had been facing, except for one thing. The wall behind where he had been sitting was stained an ominous rusty brown. "That was the last person who refused to co-operate with us," the interrogator explained, pausing to let the implication sink in.

"Now, is there anything that you would like to tell us?" In the silence following the question, there were two soft clicks as two pistols were armed.

Newkirk swallowed hard. "Yeah," he answered brokenly.

"Well, well, well," the German chuckled. "So, you've changed your mind." He stopped laughing abruptly, all traces of mirth gone instantly from his voice. "Hopefully what you have to say has been worth my time," he added threateningly.

There was a minute pause before he asked, "Who aided you and your friends?" Each word fell heavily in the tense room.

After a moment came the halting answer. "Peter Newkirk, corporal, Roy—"


	5. Detroit, Michigan

_June 22, 1941 -- Detroit, Michigan_  
  
"You've got to pay more attention," Kinch said suddenly, his voice booming as he slammed his hand down on the table. He startled the blond boy sitting beside him and the irregular stream of tapping coming from his hand abruptly stopped.  
  
He raised his head sheepishly from the book. "Gee, Kinch," he protested, "I'm trying as hard as I can."  
  
Kinch sighed and passed one of his hands over his close-cropped dark curls, trying to calm himself down. "I know you are, Tommy," Kinch assured his friend. He sighed, pointing to another paragraph further down along the page. "Let's try it again from here, okay?"  
  
"Sure, Kinch. Anything that you say," Tommy agreed quickly, bowing his head obediently back over the book, reading the paragraph Kinch had indicated. After he had had a moment to study it, he started tapping out the phrases in uneven Morse code, his tongue dangling out between his teeth.  
  
It wasn't long before Kinch's shoulders started to shake with suppressed laughter. After a moment, he couldn't contain it anymore and a deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Do you know what you just said?" he interrupted, trying to choke back his laughter.  
  
"Well, I'm guessing that it wasn't what I thought I was saying," Tommy replied apologetically, chewing nervously on his lower lip as he waited for Kinch to continue. In a minute, after Kinch had remained silent, he chanced a look at Kinch's face. He evaluated the amused look he found there and cautiously asked, "What exactly did I say?"  
  
"Four scare and seven bears ago, our fathers bought forts of this contents an ewe nation, conceived in liability." Kinch's deep laughter rolled out again. "I'm sorry for laughing, Tommy, but somehow I don't think it's quite what President Lincoln had in mind."  
  
Tommy's face flushed red again with embarrassment, but he joined his friend in his laughter. "Gee, Kinch, you should be the one taking this course. I butcher Lincoln, and anything else, but I've heard you, you make this stuff music."  
  
Kinch's laughter stopped abruptly. He would have loved to have been able to take the course himself, but the college didn't offer any spaces for blacks. Tommy instantly regretted the innocent comment, realising the significance as soon as the words left his mouth. He hadn't meant to remind his friend that he had been excluded just because of the colour of his skin.  
  
"Kinch, I'm real sorry. I... I didn't mean anything by it," Tommy apologised awkwardly. "I mean... What I mean to say is..." But he trailed off again, not really knowing how he could bridge this gap that separated him from one of his best friends. It was a gap that was only growing wider as they grew older.  
  
The kids of the neighbourhood had always played together, since the time they had been small children. They still did now, gathering in spare moments for pickup games of baseball, soccer, football, or hockey. They had never taken any notice of skin colour; they had been completely content to just be kids. It hadn't been until they started school that they had even really realised that they were different.  
  
It was their enforced separation that had hammered it home. Tommy, Billy, and the neighbourhoods other white kids had all gone to one school, just down the street. Kinch and the other black kids had had to be bussed out to another school. It hadn't been choice. It had been enforced by the school board. And while Tommy had had the best education the public school system could provide, Kinch had had to make due with out of date text books and shoddy equipment.  
  
Kinch sighed again, this time more deeply. Unlike his previous simple frustration with Tommy's sloppy Morse, this was a frustration borne from living with a class system based not on ability. It was a system that was based solely on physical features. It was like preferring one child over another just because of the colour of shirt they wore. But instead of just clothing, this was something far deeper. It was rooted in history and the end was nowhere in sight.  
  
'Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation,' President Lincoln had said on that November day back in 1863, 'conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.' And yet, almost eighty years later, the 'new nation' still retained discriminatory traditions that stretched back to an unequal and oppressive social structure that had brought the nation to war with itself.  
  
In spite of all of the advancements that they had made during that time, in many different fields, all that mattered was that one man was still rated better than another based just on the colour of his skin. Kinch wondered if it would ever change. He wondered if he would ever be given the chance to prove that he was every bit as good as Tommy or Billy.  
  
"Don't worry about it, Tommy," he replied, trying to keep his tone light. It almost worked. But behind the words lay a hurt so deep that it couldn't be glossed over by mere words. "You wouldn't want me hovering over your shoulder in class too," he added, laughing again. But unlike the deep, rolling peals of earlier, it was forced and fell dully in the now silent room.  
  
"No," Tommy agreed, his voice matching Kinch's forced light-heartedness. But in his voice too lurked something deeper, something that couldn't just be forced beneath the surface. "I wouldn't want you to feel bad when I did better than you," he joked, trying to ease the tension in the only way he could think of.  
  
Kinch laughed one more time, the laughter real again. There was still that sinister hint of something else, but it was retreating back into the distance again, where they could all usually get it to stay. It was hidden somewhere where they could forget that it mattered and just continue to be friends, as they always had been.  
  
"Well, if you want to do that, you're going to need a little more practice. Because I don't think that the founding fathers bought forts to form a nation of sheep," Kinch told Tommy.  
  
"Well, maybe I could use a little more practice," Tommy admitted, laughing heartily along with Kinch. "But, after all, I'm a work in progress!" He moved his hands up toward his face. But his hands clipped the edge of the book, sending it tumbling to the floor, almost as if to prove his point.  
  
The two looked at the book for a moment, and then back up at one another again. "You've got that right," Kinch commented before the two dissolved into uncontrollable laughter.  
  
And the moment passed. The rift between them, if not closed for good, was temporarily bridged once again. And those differences that lay on the surface was once again hidden by what was more important, what lay underneath. 


End file.
